Rebirth

The air seemed to be made of smoke, billowing, all-encompassing. The pulsing beat droned on, beating faster, then retreating, then faster again. The crowd pulsed along, rising and falling, boots, shoes, slippers, all colliding with the floor with the effort of reaching higher.

            With the flashing lights, the dim murkiness, they became silhouettes, shadow-people, forsaking whatever rationale within and merging with the steady, deep beat.

            A shadow passed, and the girl on the barstool shifted. Her short, black leather skirt went as far as mid-thigh, her legs were crossed. She maintained an expression of dull-eyed half-dead apathy that the men found so appealing, but her composure barely masked her eagerness for living the night.

            She took a sip of her drink as her eyes moved slowly, scanning the room. Men took notice of her, but she wrote them off in her mind one by one.

            Fat, nerd, geriatric, sleazy, effeminate…

            She batted her eyelids at some, daring them to come closer. Some shrank away, averting their gaze, others whispered words into the bartender’s ear and sent drinks her way. She allowed a slow smile to spread upon her flawless face.

            “I’m John,” said one, his expression one of barely-concealed determination.

            She looked at him, sized him up, then said, “And I’m unavailable.”

            John paused, his face bathed in light for a moment, and then John was gone.

            The lights flashed, the beat continued, and the crowd seemed to swallow itself, people disappearing into it, to be replaced by more…

            Her gaze drifted, perhaps unconsciously, to a figure sitting in a corner a fair distance away.

            She’d been coming to this place for a while now. She knew the bouncers, big fellows named Lars or Dennis or Tyrone, if it even mattered (all married or gay, but that didn’t matter; club workers were off-limits). She knew the bartender vaguely — bleached hair and a ponytail, both of which had put her off when she first started coming here.

            She was what some would consider a regular, but certainly not a desperate case. She preyed, and this was her hunting ground. A body like hers called to almost all the men in the place, the prey, and invariably she’d wake up the next morning in the arms of one of them. Or two, if there was vodka.

            The figure in the corner remained where he was. His face was in shadow, but she was nevertheless intrigued. He sat on the cushioned seat, his expression unknowable, hidden in mist.

            For all she knew, he could be watching her.

            The thought teased at her, and she wondered if he was indeed looking at her the way she was watching him. Could he see her expression?

            She shifted again, very slightly, her dark hair falling over her pale shoulders.

            He sat very still, and she noticed his head was tilted slightly sideways, as if he was indeed watching something.

            She smiled seductively, and waited for him to get up and come over to her, waited for the traditional bright smile and introduction.

            He didn’t get up.

            Somehow, this excited her all the more.

            She wondered how she’d do it, how she would go up to him, hiding in the shadows. Whether she should in fact be so aggressive, after all, she could very well sit at the stool and wait for the men to come to her.

            Yes… why should she chase some guy sitting in the dark, when she could have practically anyone else with greater ease? Anywhere in the crowd she looked there would be a hopeful returning gaze. So why should she have to get up?

            But the darker recesses of her mind told her that she would not be satiated if she bedded every man in the room and he was not one of them.

            It made her wonder why he had such an effect. Just sitting still in the darkness, he seemed to call to her silently through the smoke and the pulsating beat of the club, and while she wondered what he might look like, the same darker thoughts told her that she did not care for his face, only that she wanted him.

            He remained where he was. Very well, if he chose to let her come to him, then so be it.

            A flirtatious smile was cast her way, but by a man in a yellow jacket and fair hair, his grin broad, his pasty face revealing nothing that remotely interested her. She ignored him, and slowly got up from the barstool, her drink in hand, walking slowly through the throng, making her way through the mist towards the figure in the shadows, feeling a bit more alive than she had a few minutes ago.

            She noticed he moved very slightly, a gesture with his head, perhaps? She glanced towards the pool tables nearby. Some of the players looked up at her only briefly, and then continued with their game with firm, impressive shots of the cue ball.

            Smoke drifted from his direction, and a cigarette light flared from where his lips should be. She kept her grip on her glass, not really wondering what she should say, only content in focusing on moving towards him and seeing him fully.

            As she approached, she noticed pieces of paper lying on the table in front of him, most of them covered in black, scrawling words, and two glasses; one full, the other half-drained. Something clicked in her mind, something about the shape of him, but she could not recall anything.

            There was the click of a cigarette lighter, and flame illuminated his features, his dark eyebrows, smoothly-shaped nose, solid chin, dark hair, and his blue-grey eyes. It lasted only a moment. His expression was pensive, as if he had been in the midst of writing, but his sharp gaze was focused on her. When the moment faded he was still every bit as mysterious as before, perhaps even more so.

            She felt she should know his face. But she couldn’t place it anywhere, she certainly could not recall seeing him before in real life.

            A second passed, and still he watched her and she him.

            “I almost lost you in the crowd,” he said softly. Not ‘Hey there’, not ‘Good evening’, not ‘What’s up, buttercup?’ and certainly not ‘I’m John’.

            “You stayed in one place, though,” she replied without hesitation. “That made it a little easier.”

            He nodded, and the flame from the lighter revealed a confident grin. What set it apart from the other men in the club was that it was not an overconfident grin.

            “It’s free. I was working alone.” He gestured to the cushioned seat opposite him.

            She sat down slowly, placing herself without a trace of apprehension.

            “Working?” she asked, her eyes moving to the pieces of paper scattered over the table. “You’re a writer.”

            “I am.” The song changed and a nearby light came on, casting dim illumination over him. A black turtleneck, and hanging off the armrest, a black jacket. He watched her, his eyes far from scrutinizing. A writer? She’d met very few in her life, and even less in this place.

            “Anything I might know?” she asked, trying to discern the words amidst the black scribbles. They seemed barely legible.

            “Perhaps. Although I think it would be rather difficult to find my published works, the very few that there are.”

            She wondered why that would be. He seemed so… refined, and didn’t in the least hint at being a failure. Maybe he’d inherited something. She guessed that from his clothes and his posture, he had to have some amount of money.

            “Philistine critics?” she asked, half-jokingly.

            He laughed at that, his shoulders gently rocking. “I just hate philistines, don’t you? Never know how to please a simpleton. But come to think of it, if you can’t affect even a simpleton then what good are you as an artist?”

            She gave this some thought. Gone was the expression of apathy from her face.

            “Inspiration, then… is that the deal?” she asked, her eyebrows arched and a smile resting on her lips.

            “It’s a deal, it seems. Writers thrive on inspiration, as do other artists. Creation, yes, that’s the deal. I am, indeed, waiting for inspiration to hit me. As you can see,” he gestured to the various pieces of paper with the illegible words, “inspiration is taking its time.”

She looked down and discovered she had finished her drink. He offered her the full glass, the one he hadn’t touched. She sipped from it gratefully.

“What have you written?” he asked, which was the precise question she was about to pose to him. It took her slightly aback. How could he have guessed that she’d tried her hand at writing?

            She eyed him curiously, but his sharp eyes watched her, expecting an answer. So she told him the truth. “I’ve written one or two poems. But nothing I’d want to show anyone.”

            He nodded. “Many worthwhile reflective pieces have the tendency to drift past the public’s eye, yes, and perhaps with good reason.”

            Her gazed wandered lower, and she said, “That sounds like such a waste, though. I mean, why write create something good if no one’s around to enjoy it?”

            He smiled at her with all the mischief and familiarity of one who had just let someone in on a joke. “But that’s the thing, isn’t it. Why indeed? Why go through the arduous task of creation when it shall bring no benefit?” Those grey eyes seemed to possess more life than all the occupants of the club.

            “Why?” she asked, a little hazily. She mist, the shadows, the beat, everything made her feel slightly light-headed.

            “Human nature,” he said simply. He took a sip from his glass. “Oh, I’m not so morbid as to suggest that we’re fascinated with destruction, creating something purely to watch its decay and demise.” In the dim light, she could just make out his form under the turtleneck.

            “No,” he said, as the song’s tempo swelled and those on the dance floor held each other closely. “It’s not just the end that fascinates us, is it?”

            He stood up slowly, and, transfixed, so did she. With a firm hand gently gripping her wrist, he led her to the dance floor.

            Life pulsed through her body, white-hot life, as he gripped her unrelenting hips and pulled her closer, his breath warm and gentle against her neck.

            “It’s the creation,” he said softly into her ear, “and the perpetuation,” he kept his firm grip on her hips, “and inevitably, the termination.”

            He manoeuvred her around, keeping pace with the steady music. “All three. No amount of publicity can possibly be an alternative to the paroxysmal ecstasy of creation, continuation, and the final climactic end,” and here he leaned closer, speaking softly, so that she heard only his voice and felt only his warm breath, “It’s the most crucial part, because you can’t create the new without first destroying something old. That’s what it takes to enjoy something, anything, even a simple reflective poem.”

            “You’re gods,” she said, almost semi-consciously. The man in the yellow jacket leered at her from nearby; in his arms was a blonde woman whom she immediately guessed was a lower-middle-class pre-college girl, judging by her clothes and the shaky way she composed herself.

            “Gods…” said the writer. “Such are all who breathe life into things and take it all away; writers and gods alike.”

            The song changed, but the dancers did not. Warmth coursed through her veins, sparking every nerve, every fibre. She seemed to draw life from him, hugging her body close to his. Such a warm feeling could not be denied.

            Her mouth leaned towards his ear, and she paused momentarily before murmuring, almost whimpering, “Take me. My place is just nearby…”

            “So is mine,” he said, and light glinted off his blue-grey eyes.

They had barely closed the door to his highly-polished, expensive apartment before throwing themselves against one another, lips brushing over cheeks, ears, necks, lips; tongues meeting tongues in electric moments of contact, fingers running over fabric, over waistlines.

            “So alive,” she moaned, running her hand over his neck, her blouse now in a heap on the floor.

            He kissed her hard, his hands now running down her sides to her waist, quickly unzipping the leather skirt.

            “Alive,” he said, as the last of their clothes were tossed aside. She was lost in the feeling of his hands brushing over her exposed body.

            She gasped suddenly at his touch. “You’ve written before,” he said softly, and she gasped again. “Describe this to me.”

            “Like…” she said, gathering the words, “…like being born again.”
            It continued, building up until every part of her was lost in jubilant, achingly vivacious feeling. So alive was she that she felt everything more keenly than ever, the coolness of the air, the softness of whatever articles of clothing they happened to be lying on, the warmth, the throbbing of his body.

            She felt the presence of him everywhere, on her, around her, inside her, in her very breath. Her head still felt light, but conscious thought was the least of her priorities. The question of prophylactics never even crossed her mind; she could only focus on the sensation of skin touching skin, of the feeling building up and enveloping her to such an extent as to be surreal, of his breath and his powerful frame, of the final shuddering that marked both of their climaxes, and inevitably, the cold steel blade within her.

            A momentary gasp, but it lasted only seconds. Already the feeling and warmth were fading. Her eyes widened only slightly, as she felt the last of her life leaving her.

            She didn’t struggle. The knife stayed where it was, and she gazed vaguely at him.

            You can’t create the new without first destroying something old.

            In a way she felt honoured, and half a second later as her mind and eyes dulled and she issued her final breath, she wondered why this was.

            She was still.

            The writer got up.

            He nudged her lifeless body aside, not bothering with his now-blood-soaked clothes. Naked, he walked to his study and sat at his desk.

            He felt like writing now.